Chapter 208: It Should Break By Morning
"Besides," Stephen added, lowering his voice, "a little secret to tip the scales in my lord’s favour." His eyes glinted with mischief. "He has found it exceptionally difficult to lie with anyone else since he met you."
Livia’s face warmed. "Stephen."
"My lady." He bowed, utterly shameless, winked, picked up the tray and empty cups, bowed, and left the room.
"Great," Livia muttered as Stephen left the room. "Just great. Now I am the bad guy." She sat there for a moment, staring at the empty space he had left behind, annoyed by the conversation and even more annoyed by how much of it had unsettled her. She exhaled in resignation and pressed her fingers to her brow.
At last, she got up and walked back toward her bedroom. The physician was still inside, gathering his instruments.
Livia stepped in quietly. "How is he?"
The physician looked up. "Stable, my lady. Still unconscious, but his breathing has eased. If the fever continues to fall, it should break by morning."
Livia glanced toward the bed. Henry lay beneath the coverlet, his face pale as linen, lashes dark against his skin.
"I will go at once to inform the Lord Chancellor," the physician continued. "I shall return by morning. If anything changes, His Majesty’s guard knows where to find me."
Livia nodded. "Thank you."
He bowed and withdrew. Livia stood alone with Henry. For several seconds, she did not move then she crossed the room and sat in the chair beside the bed.
Henry did not stir. His hand rested above the coverlet. She tried to think of what he had been like before Richard.
Before Henry had become His Majesty in her mind and not just the merchant who had made a dreadful world feel survivable for a little while.
He had been her safe place once. Just as Richard had become. That truth did not undo the hurt. It did not excuse the cage, the threats. Henry was her past, buried along with her life at Beaumont’s.
She did not feel anything for him anymore. Did she even feel anything for him in the first place? What was the point anyway?
Whether she had loved Henry once or merely clung to him because he had been kind in a place where kindness was rare, it did not change what he had done. It did not remove the cage around her life or the fact that the future she had begun to reach for now sat in ruins because a king could not bear to be denied.
She could not forgive him.
Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
She could tolerate him, could she not? They did not have to tear each other apart every time they stood in the same room. They did not have to turn every conversation into a battlefield. She rose from the chair and moved closer to the bed. Livia sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She wanted to know.
If there was even a thread left from before—some small spark, some foolish echo of the girl who had waited for him—perhaps understanding it would make everything easier.
Her heart thundered as she lifted her hand. Her fingers hovered first, uncertain. She touched his chest lightly, tracing. She moved to his shoulder, then paused.
Nothing.
No spark.
Once, standing close to him had made her entire body aware of his presence. A glance from him had unsettled her. A brush of his hand had turned the world painfully bright.
Now there was only sadness. Had it all vanished because of what he had done? Livia swallowed. What had Henry meant when he said he could see it in her eyes, in her body? Had he truly seen desire, or had he seen only what he wanted badly enough to invent?
She leaned down slowly, searching for an answer she was not certain she wanted. Her lips touched his gently.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Nothing.
Whatever had lived there once was either gone or buried too deep to answer. She made to pull away.
Henry’s hand rose and held her in place, and he kissed her back, his own lips moving just as slowly against hers.
That was when she felt it.
The spark.
Livia jerked away as though burned. She sat frozen on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to her mouth, her heart pounding. A dozen apologies rushed to her tongue at once. She looked at him properly.
Henry had not woken. His lashes still rested against his pale cheeks. His breathing remained slow. His hand, which had held her in place only moments before, had fallen back against the coverlet. Fever still clung to him. Whatever had passed between them had not come from awareness. He was dreaming.
Or his body remembered what his mind had been too lost to know.
Livia stood quickly, smoothing her gown with trembling hands. The kiss had answered one question only to leave ten more bleeding quietly beneath it.
There was something still there. Not enough to forgive him but enough to frighten her. She moved back to the chair and sat down, folding her hands tightly in her lap. She barely moved through the remaining hours of the night.
*****
Lionel moved through the darkness with Richard beside him, both men riding at a controlled pace away from the Tower.
The city was not yet awake. Richard rode with his hands loose on the reins and fury sitting elegantly on his shoulders.
"First, His Majesty has me locked in the Tower," he said, "and mere hours before my supposed departure, he has me moved." The duke glanced at him. "Has the king ordered my death, Lionel? And are you the poor sod he has tasked with it?"
Lionel drew in a slow breath. He was exhausted, and far beyond the limits of patience. Richard’s dry humour was not improving his temper. "His Majesty is lying half dead in Covent Garden right now," Lionel snapped, "and the first task he issued me was to get you to safety because he believes you will be the first suspect in the attempt on his life."
"What happened?" Richard demanded.
Lionel’s jaw tightened. "Do not pretend you care about the king," His temper snapped through the words. "You made a mess of your friendship with him. You."
"I did not deny that at any point," Richard said, his voice low. "I admitted it. I apologised for it and it was all I could give him."
"I told you to let the girl go."
Richard’s hands flexed on the reins. "Why do I have to be the one to let her go?"
"Because you were his friend."
"And she is the woman I love."
"Then God help all of you."
Lionel pushed his horse harder for several yards, then reined back when he realised he was leaving the duke behind. His anger had nowhere useful to go. So his fury turned toward Richard, the nearest man with enough guilt to deserve some of it. "You should have valued your friendship above all else," Lionel snapped. "You both should have."
"You both threw away something wonderful for a woman."
The duke’s voice softened. "How is he, Lionel?"
"I do not know. I do not know," he repeated. "I left him fevered, barely conscious. I should be there. I am here with you on the order of my king instead of being with him."
"Go back, Lionel," Richard said. "I can handle myself. Be with him."
"I have to get you to safety," Lionel objected.
Richard glanced at him, one brow lifting. "Lionel...Come now. I will be perfectly fine."
"You are certain?"
Richard gave him a look. "When have I ever needed a nursemaid?"
Lionel’s mouth tightened. "I think that was our greatest mistake. You should have been kept under constant watch...Preferably from birth."
For the first time that night, Richard laughed. For all Lionel’s anger, he was terrified for Henry. He had served him too long not to love him.
"Go," Richard said. "Before I change my mind and make you escort me all the way to Dover."
"Your Grace—"
"Lionel." Richard’s tone softened. "Go."
The guard bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Richard watched him turn his horse around. Within moments, Lionel was riding back through the waking gloom, his cloak snapping behind him, his urgency clear in every line of his body.
Then Richard was alone. He sat still in the saddle, reins loose in his hands, while London shifted around him. The sky had begun to pale at the edges, washing the rooftops in the colour of old ash.
Could he do it? Could he truly let Diana go for the sake of his friendship with the king? Henry had been his friend before all this.
Diana was not the cause of their ruin. She was the person both of them had failed in different ways.
Richard closed his eyes briefly. If he loved her, he had to stop proving it by refusing to listen. He opened his eyes.
The ache in his chest settled deeper. He turned his horse in the direction of the port. He would find an inn there and leave in the morning for France.
